


These Endless, Lonely Days

by WishingOnWhishaw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Denial, Depressed John, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oblivious, Pain, Post Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Realisation, Reichenbach Feels, Tears, This just isn't happy, Why Did I Write This?, you get the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishingOnWhishaw/pseuds/WishingOnWhishaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without Sherlock, John's life just seems to be falling apart. He's torn between staying in and grieving, and carrying on like everything is normal. But you can only hide from yourself for so long, and when his emotions catch up with him, John only finds it harder to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Endless, Lonely Days

**Author's Note:**

> Someone explain why I put myself through the pain of writing this? I apologise for the sad things that my brain comes up with and can only hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta read, so any and all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Title for this fic comes from the lyrical version of Downton Abbey's theme, 'Did I Make the Most of Loving You?' composed by John Lunn, and sung by Mary-Jess Leaverland. It's really nice and gives me loads of Johnlock feels so yeah. Credit there, go check it out.

John sat in the dingy little apartment that he'd called home for the past six months, staring out of the window at the dark clouds that hung over London, at the rain that had started to fall again, bouncing off the pavement as it hit. The weather seemed to be reflecting his mood right now: dark and gloomy with little sign of it getting better soon. John wondered briefly if he could use the almost torrential rain as an excuse to cancel his date later. It wasn't that he didn't like Christy—from the twice they'd met previously, John had decided she was actually quite nice—he just really wasn't in the mood to go out on a date right now. He could barely bring himself to even go outside most days, since just walking through London brought back memories that John still struggled to deal with, memories that he didn't want to acknowledge and that he pushed to the back of his mind. He'd stopped going to his counselling sessions, since they never really made him feel any better, and there would be some days that he wouldn't even want to get out of bed or eat anything. There had been numerous occasions when Mrs. Hudson had come over on a regular visit (John knew she was checking up on him, but 'visiting' made him sound that bit more sane) and found John's cupboards empty or the food in his fridge gone mouldy. She always brought food with her, for that reason, and cleaned up when John hadn't, without comment. He knew that she was going easy on him, that there was a time when she'd have scolded him on the state of his home, but she understood. There would be days when John would welcome Mrs. Hudson, glad to have someone to be there for him still, but other times he would get angry and snap at her, claiming he was fine and didn't need her pity. And Mrs. Hudson just took it all in her stride. John knew that she had had to deal with much harsher, less thought out words than that, had witnessed it himself and had always chastised, apologised to Mrs. Hudson and tried to make... No.

 

John gave a quick shake of his head, looking up at the ceiling and trying to derail that train of thought right now before his eyes welled up and he broke down again. He thought of Christy, of the date he was going on tonight. He had something, a distraction, a way to believe that everything was normal and to take his mind off anything else that may threaten to make him lose it. He pushed out of his chair, going the short distance to his bedroom and opening his cupboard to try and decide what to wear. His thoughts on this date had changed pretty quickly, but then John's mind was hardly something reliable anymore. He was slowly falling apart again, but tonight he could pull himself together. He could put on his best jeans, a shirt and his favourite jumper and he could go for a meal. John could have a nice night with Christy, could smile and thank her for a lovely evening. Because what had John Watson become if he stripped away the illusion that nothing had changed? That was yet another item on his long list of things he didn't want to think about.

 

* * *

 

"John," Christy interrupted him, her voice soft as she reached out and laid her hand over his on the table. "This... It's not going to work."

 

John stared back at her, closing his mouth and giving a shake of his head. "No, it..." He sighed shakily, looking up and allowing his eyes to meet her pale blue ones. "We can make it work," he tried. Christy gave a comforting smile, now her turn to shake her head. She pushed a dark curl out of her face, tucking it behind her ear.

 

"No, John," she said, and her voice was so calm, so gentle that John couldn't help but admire her a little bit. "Look, I don't know what it is you've gone through. You don't want to talk about, and that's fine. I get it. But... Whatever it was, you're still not over it. And," she paused, giving John's hand a small squeeze, trying to offer him some sort of comfort. "I don't think that this is going to help you. You need to come to terms with it, whatever it is, and you can't do that by hiding from it and seeing other people."

 

All John could do was nod his head, knowing that all Christy said was true and unable to find anything in him to convince her to stay, even just a little longer.

 

"You have my number if you ever want to talk," she said, getting to her feet and putting on her coat. "Any time, just feel free to give me ring. This... I don't want you to think this is me pushing you away. I do like you, John, but I can see you need your own space right now."

 

"Thank you," John murmured in reply, looking up and managing a small smile. He ignored the sympathy in the one Christy offered in reply, allowing her to lean down and press a chaste kiss to his cheek, his goodbye barely above a whisper. He sighed defeatedly as he watched her retreating form, looking quickly down at the table. He asked for the bill, payed as quickly as he could and left the restaurant, walking slowly back to his apartment.

 

He shouldn't be surprised, not really. After all, John had never had successful dates, and why would his life take a turn for the better now, when he'd lost everything else? He walked home slowly, not phased by the rain that was steadily becoming heavier as he went. He thought about the events of the evening, and his mind quickly wandered backward, remembering all the dates he'd been on since his return to London. He frowned to himself, unable to put his finger on why most of them had never worked out. And then at last, his mind came to Jeanette, and the old memory that John had shoved away in his head, along with countless others. It all took him by surprise, and John felt his legs give out beneath him, stumbling into the nearby wall and sinking to the floor, not caring that it was wet. Everything slotted into place and now that John's mind had gone there it was too late to pull it back. Words played through his head, memories of smiles and of frustration, of the shock and the astonishment and of all the things that had happened since he came back home from Afghanistan. Of all that was good before his life fell apart. Before Sherlock fell and took John down with him.

 

John was paying no attention the tears falling down his cheeks, to the rain soaking him to the skin or the sobs that he was now choking on. There were phrases, other peoples' voices on repeat in his head and John couldn't make them stop. 

 

_'For you and for your date.'_

_'Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?'_

_'We're not a couple.' 'Yes you are.'_

_'You two had a little domestic?'_

_'Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.'_

 

John shook his head, gasping for air as he looked up at the sky, rainwater mixing with the tears on his face as he stared up into the darkness. Because it all made sense now, everything finally made sense. The dates that never worked out, all the danger he put himself in, the times when he'd risked his own life and the times when no matter how annoying his flatmate was being, John stayed. The violin at three in the morning, waking him up. The body parts in the fridge. The gunshots fired at the walls. The complete lack of privacy. If it had been anyone else, John would've been out of there. He'd have left and found somewhere else to live, found someone more normal and sociable and perhaps a little easier to live with. But John had never even considered leaving, had never wanted to, because in the end, he had always been worth it. "Sh-sherlock," he breathed, shaking his head squeezing his eyes shut tight. "Sherlock!"

 

The revelation had John stuck there on the floor, his throat tight and his chest heaving as he pulled his knees up and hugged them close. He continued yelling, not sure what it was he was hoping for. Maybe if he kept shouting, the detective would hear him. Maybe he'd come running in, would save John like he always did. John didn't care how ridiculous that was; he kept yelling until his throat was hoarse and his speech capabilities were reduced to barely audible whispers. He didn't know what else he could do. Because he, John Hamish Watson, was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and there was nothing he could do about it. How had he missed it? How could John have been so stupid? Everyone around them could see it, could tell what was happening and yet John took no notice. And now he had finally realised how right they were, only it was too late. The penny had dropped but it was no good because Sherlock, the man that John loved, had died over six months ago and left him alone. Sherlock was gone and John was lost without him. And he hadn't even had the chance to tell him, hadn't realised soon enough just what Sherlock meant to him. Now Sherlock would never know.

 

John wasn't sure how long he stayed there, sat on the floor. All he knew was that when he got up, his legs were numb and he was shaking, soaked and freezing from the rain that had now turned into a light drizzle. He didn't even bother to wipe his eyes as he made his way back home, ready to get in and shed his wet clothes, to climb into bed and cry himself to sleep. He reached the door, his fingers white and barely usable as he fumbled with the key, rubbing his hands together to try and warm them. Eventually he got it in the lock, twisting it and stumbling inside, making sure it was locked again behind him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dropping the key into the bowl beside the door before he reached for the light switch. John went to take a step forwards, but he stopped dead still, his eyes wide as he stared across the room.

 

"Hello, John," came the voice that the doctor had longed to hear all these months, the voice that John had believed he would never hear again. There was so much he had to say, so many things he needed to know and confessions he had to make. But for now, he could manage only one word. The word that he'd spent about two hours screaming in the hope he'd be heard by the man he needed. The man that he loved.

 

"Sherlock," he rasped.

**Author's Note:**

> Ending was very predictable, I am so sorry. I may post a sequel to this, if the inspiration strikes and I don't drown in my own tears first.


End file.
